Yavin IV had been abandoned for years before the Rebel Alliance moved in, its native warrior-race decimated by the Sith several millennia before, its ancient temples crumbling before the glacial onslaught of of a living, breathing jungle. Isolated and remote, it’d been the perfect place to cultivate a rebellion, to throw together a bunch of farm boys and merchant brats, refugees and criminals, the galaxy’s abused and disposed, and turn them into soldiers, fighting for a cause greater than themselves.
And then the Rebels had departed, leaving the hastily converted military barrack, control rooms, landing strips, and storage bins in their wake— the regular detritus of an army on the move, forgotten in the rush to relocate in the wake of the near miss from the first Death Star.
When Poe’s parents had moved there for good, Yavin IV, an Outer Rim moon with no native population and few strategic advantages, had only just been remembered by the galaxy at large. A Settlement Committee had formed, giving priority to veterans and people displaced by the war. Kes Dameron and Shara Bey, who were both, had apparently not even considered other options. Poe has always suspected, though never asked, that they’d both been ready to put a substantial amount of distance between themselves and the complexities of intragalactic politics brewing in the Core, where the new government was still going through extended growing pains.
A ranch in the midst of the deadly fauna, the sometimes carnivorous flora, and the daily torrential rainstorms (usually called “The Torments” by the locals, who were quick to adapt to the quirks of their newly adopted home with mostly good humor) might’ve seemed like strange place to find peace. But Poe’s parents had managed. All they’d really needed was each other; or at least, that’s how Poe remembers it.
Back then, hapless explorers who wandered off the beaten path, away from the few established townships, quickly found themselves at risk from the wildlife, the geography, and the weather itself.
These days, the jungle’s just as thick and, in most ways, just as dangerous. The towns are a little bigger, though — New Hope isn’t exactly the pinnacle of urban sprawl, but there’s more shops, and the local school house has a gained a second story since Poe attended it, and a fresh, brighter coat of paint. The Governing Palace, housed in one of the ancient Massassi structures, has been substantially renovated, with newly reinforced walls and another wing for the growing bureaucratic force associated with the moon's local Council and its representative to the Galactic Senate.
There’s even a couple of new cantinas, some trendy enough they’d look right at home on Corcuscant. The rest are pretty kitschy, catering to the tourists who pour from the green-and-white hover-buses shuttling folks to and from the old Rebel base, which has been turned into a supposedly cutting-edge museum celebrating the efforts of the Alliance to free the galaxy from imperial tyranny. Poe’s only been once, on the day it opened; half of holo-displays hadn’t worked, and the ones that had tended toward hagiographic depictions of several freedom fighters, including the much-vaunted local hero, Lieutenant Shara Bey Dameron. He hasn’t really felt the need to go again.
He and his dad weave around the gaggle of tourists, who mostly stick to the main streets and the tidy shops with the brightly colored walls and the restaurants serving traditional Yavenese fare. The place the Damerons are heading, with its packed-dirt floor and its lack of umbrella drinks, is maybe a little too authentic for most off-worlders.
The Armored Eel is not exactly a dive, but it is entirely without pretense — it’s as old as the colony, dating to a time when the citizens of New Hope had very little choice as to their local watering hole, and it shows. In addition to the dirt floor, there are tables and chairs made from rough-hewn wood, a scuffed bar, and a drink selection of five: all you can order is ale (of unknown brand or provenance), brandy (likewise), wine (Pamarthen, not for the weak of heart or stomach); rum (bottled on-planet from locally grown sugar cane); and cusha, a sickly-sweet liquor made from fruit fermented in the proprietor's backyard.
Sarna, said proprietor, is a portly being with grey-green skin and flint-blue eyes who has little to no patience for most beings. But she has a soft spot for veterans, and if there’s one thing that Yavin IV’s not lacking, it’s loyal soldiers, current and former, in need of a drink.
Today, Poe and his father are among them, and they’re not alone: Kes Dameron’s friends from the local Veterans Committee meet there every week or so, and Poe only vaguely suspects that his father’d moved the usual date around to be able to show him off today.
“Damerons!” booms one of the men, a tall, broad guy with a bushy grey beard, as they walk in. The rest of the table — about fifteen beings, most of them human, all of them about Kes Dameron’s age or a few years older, stand up. Poe recognizes about half, folks who’d settled on the moon around the same time as his family, or whom he’d met on one of his few recent visits. And then there’s the sturdy, pink-skinned Mikkian, who's a complete surprise:
“Sakas!” he says, grinning, walking right over to kiss her on both cheeks. She laughs and returns the gesture, though it’s not traditional for her the same way it is for him. “What are you doing all the way out here?”
“Oh, this and that,” she says, shrugging, but — Poe can’t help notice — not quite meeting his eyes. “Checking up on your father, mostly."
“Keepin’ him out of trouble?"
“Seems like you Damerons always need it,” she says, giving his shoulder a fond, exasperated look.
“Yeah, clipped your wing a bit there, huh, son?” says Arili Markyl, a former Pathfinder, nodding at the sling.
Poe rubs self-consciously at the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of how much attention is on him and his injury. “Just an accident. Mostly healed, but…"
“He’s takin’ advantage of a little R&R time with his dad,” says Kes, coming up to his side. “Force knows he’s earned it.”
This is met with a lot of approving nods and no further questions; Poe throws his father a grateful look that no one else seems to catch.
No one that is, except for Sakas, who gives a swift, knowing nod and wraps her arm protectively around his waist. She guides him back toward a row of three empty seats, setting Poe down in the middle, with herself to the side; Kes follows, sitting on a stool on the other side, and leans over as everyone settles back into their own seats.
“So what’s everyone drinking?” says Kes, rapping his knuckles against the rough wood table. “Next round’s on us!” That earns cheers, obviously — even Poe joins in, and starts to stand. Kes waves him down. “I got it, kid. Catch these bums up on what’s goin’ on in the rest of the galaxy, huh?"
Poe laughs, but the group apparently takes it seriously: he fields a number of questions on intragalactic politics that he’s not entirely prepared to answer, given how long it’s been since he’s visited Hosnian Prime or really had the time to think about it. He’s just finished up bungling an answer about the Banking Alliance’s latest refusal to raise interest rates when T’iana Calad, formerly of Gold Squadron and an old friend of Snap’s mom, lobs him what she probably thinks is a bit of a softball:
“So what’re you up to now, kiddo? Last I heard, you were off on Mirrin Prime, heading a squadron. How’s that going? They still got you on the T-85s?"
“Uh…"
“Poe’s running missions for Senator Organa these days,” says Kes, who’s appeared like a miracle, smoothly distributing drinks (ales, mostly, though Sakas and a few others have decided to brave the wine) around the table. This information is met with a wave of interest, followed by a couple of approving back pats — Yavin IV is Populist to fault and particularly loyal to the legacy of the Organas, which is rare for an Outer Rim planet, but given that the population is made up primarily of Alderiaan ex-pats and retired members of the Rebel Alliance, it’s not really surprising. Poe finds himself wincing from the attention, less because the sentiment than from the intensity of it. Kes works his way back to Poe’s side, smoothly blocking further access.
“Good man,” crows Nyeb Paesante from across the table, tipping his ale toward Poe. “You send the Princess our regards, lad. Tell ‘er we don’t hold with any o’ that nonsense about her father."
“Damn shame, that mess,” chimes Kresh Aiden, who’d flown an ambulance ship back in the day and now runs a clinic downtown. “Total hack job."
This elicits titters of agreement, and a conversation starts up, about how much truth there is behind rumors of General Organa’s biological parentage.
“Hell of a coincidence, it comin’ out right before the nomination,” says Sakas, which is met by a round of nods. “She’d've made a great First Senator."
“Because that kinda thing worked out so well last time,” says Krystah Rogocki, another former Pathfinder; he and Sakas have always butted heads a little, going back to the old days. Poe’s never found out what the source of it was, and his dad’s carefully neutral on the subject, but Poe’s more inclined to trust Sakas and is usually on her side by default.
“We’re not talking about Palpatine here, K,” says Sakas, rolling her blue eyes. “We’re talking about Princess Organa. That kind of power in the right hands isn't— "
“There ain’t no right hands for that kind of power," says Krystah, cold and humorless.
“So who’d y’all like for the Galactic Cup this year?” Kes says, a little abruptly, but it seems to work: talk of politics simmers down, and the conversation turns, only slightly less heatedly, to whether Gordian Athletic has a shot this time, or whether they’ll fall victim, yet again, to Team Fwillsving’s decade-long winning streak.
Poe lets it wash over him, remembering many conversations like this, in tone and cadence if not content — Sakas he’s known since he was a kid, and his dad’s small but steady band of VETCO friends has always been fun to catch up with during trips home from the Academy. A living reminder of the possibility, maybe even the likelihood, of a future — all of them had fought and bled and almost died for the New Republic, but they’d made it, they’d help build something real, even if it wasn’t perfect, even if it was never really done. And they’d got to enjoy a life of their own after, their own little bit of the peace and warmth in a big, cold galaxy.
It’s kind of nice, Poe thinks.
Sakas catches him smiling, and reaches over to squeeze his hand; that’s kind of nice too.
“It’s good you came home,” she says, low, leaning in a little to be heard by just him.
“Yeah?”
“Your father had us pretty worried.”
Poe blinks. Glances over at his dad, who’s in a deep discussion about how the trainer for Gordian Athletic was too much of a political pick to be very effective.
"Well, you know how Dad is," Poe says, vague but conspiratorial; Sakas laughs and shakes her head, sending her tendrils swaying.
"I do at that!" she says, taking a long sip from her wine. "Frankly I'm surprised he even told you, but..." she pats his hand fondly. "I'm glad he did."
"So am I," Poe says, watching Kes make wide, indignant gestures in support of whatever point he’s making. And he will be, certainly: once he figures out what his father's hiding from him and manages to finesse the details out of him, Poe will be very glad indeed.
"What?" says Kes, noticing that he's being stared at.
"You're crazy if you think it's down to the trainer," says Poe. "The problem's the players: they don't see themselves as a real team yet. They’re just a bunch of kids from different planets right now."
"You don't think that's down to the trainer?"
"I think that's up to the captain."
Kes gives a fond "agree to disagree" kind of huff and reaches over to give the back of Poe's neck a squeeze. Whatever he's about to say is lost when the rest of the table starts hooting and clapping. Poe and his dad turn as one to find the source of the commotion: Sarna, approaching with another full tray of drinks, balanced effortlessly on one hand, because in the other--
"Oh, no no no, no," Poe says.
"Next round's on the house," Sarna says, ignoring him as she slides the tray onto the table. "'s long as you folks help me out with a little problem I'm having."
"See, thing is, our regular entertainment's on the fritz lately," she says, nodding toward the ancient droid that plunks out a limited (very limited, in Poe's recollection) repertoire of Old Republic classics on a tinny valachord. "And I hear you Damerons've always got a song or two in ya'..." she holds out the guitar, a beautiful, intricately carved thing that Poe would normally die to try, and grins.
"That is a gross exaggeration," says Poe, and then gestures at his shoulder. "And unfortunately I can't really play right now, so—"
"So I guess you'll just have to sing along," says Kes, standing up to take the guitar, and nodding toward two stools and a low-tech (and probably unnecessary, given the size of the rooms) microphone that are not part of the cantina’s regular decor.
Yeah, Poe realizes, this was a total set-up, and honestly, shame on him for not picking up on it before. What kind of spy is he, really.
FILL: Poe, Kes Dameron, injury recovery and family time (5a/7)
And then the Rebels had departed, leaving the hastily converted military barrack, control rooms, landing strips, and storage bins in their wake— the regular detritus of an army on the move, forgotten in the rush to relocate in the wake of the near miss from the first Death Star.
When Poe’s parents had moved there for good, Yavin IV, an Outer Rim moon with no native population and few strategic advantages, had only just been remembered by the galaxy at large. A Settlement Committee had formed, giving priority to veterans and people displaced by the war. Kes Dameron and Shara Bey, who were both, had apparently not even considered other options. Poe has always suspected, though never asked, that they’d both been ready to put a substantial amount of distance between themselves and the complexities of intragalactic politics brewing in the Core, where the new government was still going through extended growing pains.
A ranch in the midst of the deadly fauna, the sometimes carnivorous flora, and the daily torrential rainstorms (usually called “The Torments” by the locals, who were quick to adapt to the quirks of their newly adopted home with mostly good humor) might’ve seemed like strange place to find peace. But Poe’s parents had managed. All they’d really needed was each other; or at least, that’s how Poe remembers it.
Back then, hapless explorers who wandered off the beaten path, away from the few established townships, quickly found themselves at risk from the wildlife, the geography, and the weather itself.
These days, the jungle’s just as thick and, in most ways, just as dangerous. The towns are a little bigger, though — New Hope isn’t exactly the pinnacle of urban sprawl, but there’s more shops, and the local school house has a gained a second story since Poe attended it, and a fresh, brighter coat of paint. The Governing Palace, housed in one of the ancient Massassi structures, has been substantially renovated, with newly reinforced walls and another wing for the growing bureaucratic force associated with the moon's local Council and its representative to the Galactic Senate.
There’s even a couple of new cantinas, some trendy enough they’d look right at home on Corcuscant. The rest are pretty kitschy, catering to the tourists who pour from the green-and-white hover-buses shuttling folks to and from the old Rebel base, which has been turned into a supposedly cutting-edge museum celebrating the efforts of the Alliance to free the galaxy from imperial tyranny. Poe’s only been once, on the day it opened; half of holo-displays hadn’t worked, and the ones that had tended toward hagiographic depictions of several freedom fighters, including the much-vaunted local hero, Lieutenant Shara Bey Dameron. He hasn’t really felt the need to go again.
He and his dad weave around the gaggle of tourists, who mostly stick to the main streets and the tidy shops with the brightly colored walls and the restaurants serving traditional Yavenese fare. The place the Damerons are heading, with its packed-dirt floor and its lack of umbrella drinks, is maybe a little too authentic for most off-worlders.
The Armored Eel is not exactly a dive, but it is entirely without pretense — it’s as old as the colony, dating to a time when the citizens of New Hope had very little choice as to their local watering hole, and it shows. In addition to the dirt floor, there are tables and chairs made from rough-hewn wood, a scuffed bar, and a drink selection of five: all you can order is ale (of unknown brand or provenance), brandy (likewise), wine (Pamarthen, not for the weak of heart or stomach); rum (bottled on-planet from locally grown sugar cane); and cusha, a sickly-sweet liquor made from fruit fermented in the proprietor's backyard.
Sarna, said proprietor, is a portly being with grey-green skin and flint-blue eyes who has little to no patience for most beings. But she has a soft spot for veterans, and if there’s one thing that Yavin IV’s not lacking, it’s loyal soldiers, current and former, in need of a drink.
Today, Poe and his father are among them, and they’re not alone: Kes Dameron’s friends from the local Veterans Committee meet there every week or so, and Poe only vaguely suspects that his father’d moved the usual date around to be able to show him off today.
“Damerons!” booms one of the men, a tall, broad guy with a bushy grey beard, as they walk in. The rest of the table — about fifteen beings, most of them human, all of them about Kes Dameron’s age or a few years older, stand up. Poe recognizes about half, folks who’d settled on the moon around the same time as his family, or whom he’d met on one of his few recent visits. And then there’s the sturdy, pink-skinned Mikkian, who's a complete surprise:
“Sakas!” he says, grinning, walking right over to kiss her on both cheeks. She laughs and returns the gesture, though it’s not traditional for her the same way it is for him. “What are you doing all the way out here?”
“Oh, this and that,” she says, shrugging, but — Poe can’t help notice — not quite meeting his eyes. “Checking up on your father, mostly."
“Keepin’ him out of trouble?"
“Seems like you Damerons always need it,” she says, giving his shoulder a fond, exasperated look.
“Yeah, clipped your wing a bit there, huh, son?” says Arili Markyl, a former Pathfinder, nodding at the sling.
Poe rubs self-consciously at the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of how much attention is on him and his injury. “Just an accident. Mostly healed, but…"
“He’s takin’ advantage of a little R&R time with his dad,” says Kes, coming up to his side. “Force knows he’s earned it.”
This is met with a lot of approving nods and no further questions; Poe throws his father a grateful look that no one else seems to catch.
No one that is, except for Sakas, who gives a swift, knowing nod and wraps her arm protectively around his waist. She guides him back toward a row of three empty seats, setting Poe down in the middle, with herself to the side; Kes follows, sitting on a stool on the other side, and leans over as everyone settles back into their own seats.
“So what’s everyone drinking?” says Kes, rapping his knuckles against the rough wood table. “Next round’s on us!” That earns cheers, obviously — even Poe joins in, and starts to stand. Kes waves him down. “I got it, kid. Catch these bums up on what’s goin’ on in the rest of the galaxy, huh?"
Poe laughs, but the group apparently takes it seriously: he fields a number of questions on intragalactic politics that he’s not entirely prepared to answer, given how long it’s been since he’s visited Hosnian Prime or really had the time to think about it. He’s just finished up bungling an answer about the Banking Alliance’s latest refusal to raise interest rates when T’iana Calad, formerly of Gold Squadron and an old friend of Snap’s mom, lobs him what she probably thinks is a bit of a softball:
“So what’re you up to now, kiddo? Last I heard, you were off on Mirrin Prime, heading a squadron. How’s that going? They still got you on the T-85s?"
“Uh…"
“Poe’s running missions for Senator Organa these days,” says Kes, who’s appeared like a miracle, smoothly distributing drinks (ales, mostly, though Sakas and a few others have decided to brave the wine) around the table. This information is met with a wave of interest, followed by a couple of approving back pats — Yavin IV is Populist to fault and particularly loyal to the legacy of the Organas, which is rare for an Outer Rim planet, but given that the population is made up primarily of Alderiaan ex-pats and retired members of the Rebel Alliance, it’s not really surprising. Poe finds himself wincing from the attention, less because the sentiment than from the intensity of it. Kes works his way back to Poe’s side, smoothly blocking further access.
“Good man,” crows Nyeb Paesante from across the table, tipping his ale toward Poe. “You send the Princess our regards, lad. Tell ‘er we don’t hold with any o’ that nonsense about her father."
“Damn shame, that mess,” chimes Kresh Aiden, who’d flown an ambulance ship back in the day and now runs a clinic downtown. “Total hack job."
This elicits titters of agreement, and a conversation starts up, about how much truth there is behind rumors of General Organa’s biological parentage.
“Hell of a coincidence, it comin’ out right before the nomination,” says Sakas, which is met by a round of nods. “She’d've made a great First Senator."
“Because that kinda thing worked out so well last time,” says Krystah Rogocki, another former Pathfinder; he and Sakas have always butted heads a little, going back to the old days. Poe’s never found out what the source of it was, and his dad’s carefully neutral on the subject, but Poe’s more inclined to trust Sakas and is usually on her side by default.
“We’re not talking about Palpatine here, K,” says Sakas, rolling her blue eyes. “We’re talking about Princess Organa. That kind of power in the right hands isn't— "
“There ain’t no right hands for that kind of power," says Krystah, cold and humorless.
“So who’d y’all like for the Galactic Cup this year?” Kes says, a little abruptly, but it seems to work: talk of politics simmers down, and the conversation turns, only slightly less heatedly, to whether Gordian Athletic has a shot this time, or whether they’ll fall victim, yet again, to Team Fwillsving’s decade-long winning streak.
Poe lets it wash over him, remembering many conversations like this, in tone and cadence if not content — Sakas he’s known since he was a kid, and his dad’s small but steady band of VETCO friends has always been fun to catch up with during trips home from the Academy. A living reminder of the possibility, maybe even the likelihood, of a future — all of them had fought and bled and almost died for the New Republic, but they’d made it, they’d help build something real, even if it wasn’t perfect, even if it was never really done. And they’d got to enjoy a life of their own after, their own little bit of the peace and warmth in a big, cold galaxy.
It’s kind of nice, Poe thinks.
Sakas catches him smiling, and reaches over to squeeze his hand; that’s kind of nice too.
“It’s good you came home,” she says, low, leaning in a little to be heard by just him.
“Yeah?”
“Your father had us pretty worried.”
Poe blinks. Glances over at his dad, who’s in a deep discussion about how the trainer for Gordian Athletic was too much of a political pick to be very effective.
"Well, you know how Dad is," Poe says, vague but conspiratorial; Sakas laughs and shakes her head, sending her tendrils swaying.
"I do at that!" she says, taking a long sip from her wine. "Frankly I'm surprised he even told you, but..." she pats his hand fondly. "I'm glad he did."
"So am I," Poe says, watching Kes make wide, indignant gestures in support of whatever point he’s making. And he will be, certainly: once he figures out what his father's hiding from him and manages to finesse the details out of him, Poe will be very glad indeed.
"What?" says Kes, noticing that he's being stared at.
"You're crazy if you think it's down to the trainer," says Poe. "The problem's the players: they don't see themselves as a real team yet. They’re just a bunch of kids from different planets right now."
"You don't think that's down to the trainer?"
"I think that's up to the captain."
Kes gives a fond "agree to disagree" kind of huff and reaches over to give the back of Poe's neck a squeeze. Whatever he's about to say is lost when the rest of the table starts hooting and clapping. Poe and his dad turn as one to find the source of the commotion: Sarna, approaching with another full tray of drinks, balanced effortlessly on one hand, because in the other--
"Oh, no no no, no," Poe says.
"Next round's on the house," Sarna says, ignoring him as she slides the tray onto the table. "'s long as you folks help me out with a little problem I'm having."
"What sort of problem, ma'am?" says Kes, already grinning — he's planned this, Poe realizes.
"See, thing is, our regular entertainment's on the fritz lately," she says, nodding toward the ancient droid that plunks out a limited (very limited, in Poe's recollection) repertoire of Old Republic classics on a tinny valachord. "And I hear you Damerons've always got a song or two in ya'..." she holds out the guitar, a beautiful, intricately carved thing that Poe would normally die to try, and grins.
"That is a gross exaggeration," says Poe, and then gestures at his shoulder. "And unfortunately I can't really play right now, so—"
"So I guess you'll just have to sing along," says Kes, standing up to take the guitar, and nodding toward two stools and a low-tech (and probably unnecessary, given the size of the rooms) microphone that are not part of the cantina’s regular decor.
Yeah, Poe realizes, this was a total set-up, and honestly, shame on him for not picking up on it before. What kind of spy is he, really.